Category Archives: Writing

Animals, Death, Poetry And Prose

Mr. Doofus

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Mr. Doofus

In the years before everything changed, Greg knew that someday he would send his last message, speak his last words, and enjoy a sunset. One day, someone would speak his name for the last time. Finality brings focus. When a cup of coffee potentially becomes your last, the sips are dark and delicious, and even a drop wasted brings regret.

It was all theoretical until the doctor uncomfortably leaned forward and adjusted his tie. Even after years of practice, he hadn’t acquired the ability to tell someone that they would soon be defined by a dash between dates. “It’s everywhere. The exploratory surgery confirmed it.”

Greg asked the only question he could think of.

“I’d say two months. I’m so sorry,” the doctor answered.

Greg’s days were truly numbered.

After leaving the doctor’s office, he drove home. Instead of going inside, he walked across the railroad tracks. He meandered through the abandoned industrial district that once fueled the small town. He’d seen it all dozens of times. This time, however, he paid attention to every detail.

Greg stopped near an abandoned building that once held dozens of workers. The sign that once displayed the name of a thriving company was now rusted and faded. It was a relic now, succumbing to time. When Greg was young, the place was buzzing with life. Now, it slowly rusted and constantly sought ways to disintegrate.

“I thought I had more time. I thought I could take back all the ways I insisted I was right. In faith, in action, and words.” He didn’t know why he said it aloud.

The trees above him didn’t acknowledge him like he expected. They rebuffed his excessive self-reflection. For once, he stood under them and let the breeze wash over him.

The abandoned cat chose that moment to make his appearance and introduction. He poked through between bent pieces of galvanized metal, probably after hearing Greg’s voice.

Greg didn’t have time to react as the scruffy grey cat ran over to him, meowed, and then forcefully rubbed against the back of his leg. Bending down, he rubbed the cat’s head as it arched its back to meet his fingers. The cat’s fur was messy and tangled in a few places.

As Greg ran his fingers along the cat’s back, he felt a scar that traversed at least four inches of the cat’s back. Pushing the fur aside, he could see that the jagged scar was long-healed, even though the cat didn’t appear to be very old.

The cat meandered behind him as Greg walked home. Greg walked slowly, appreciating the leaves, the fading sun, and his collection of memories. He stopped at the railroad tracks, staring in each direction as the tracks stretched away from him.

“I’ve got a scar like that too,” Greg told the cat as it peered up at him and rubbed his leg. Greg’s scar was only a few months old. He caught himself touching it lightly through his shirt several times a day. The surgery that could have lasted three hours took only fifteen minutes before the surgeon closed him back up.

“Go home, doofus,” Greg said as he turned to rub the cat’s head one last time.

Greg avoided looking back at the cat as he neared his house. Taking his keys from his pocket, he turned. The cat sat directly behind him, looking up.

Greg opened the door and held it open. The cat meowed and walked inside as Greg shook his head.

“Just for a minute, okay? I can’t give you a permanent home.”

He watched as the cat ran to the couch, jumped up to the edge, and watched him.

When Greg reached for the cat to pet it, it hunkered down slightly and then jumped. Greg caught him as the cat arched up and nuzzled under his chin. Greg laughed as the cat’s whiskers rubbed against his face.

“Let’s see what I can find to give you to eat, Mr. Doofus.” Greg finally bent down to let the cat sit on the floor and look up at him.

Within a couple of minutes, Greg placed a small plate of tuna on the floor. “Your dinner is served,” Greg said.

Mr. Doofus meowed a loud thank-you and began eating the tuna noisily.

Greg placed a bowl of water next to the kitchen table. Mr. Doofus slowly walked over to the bowl and began drinking.

After heating up a microwave meal, Greg picked up his small tray and turned to the living room.

Mr. Doofus jumped up in the middle of the couch, turned, and faced the TV.

Greg sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. News wouldn’t hold his interest. It mattered only when you thought you might be around to see how everything worked out.

Mr. Doofus climbed onto Greg’s lap and curled up, purring loudly. Greg ate a few bites of his meal before pushing it across the coffee table. Instead of paying attention to the TV, Greg rubbed his hands along Mr. Doofus until he was purring like a jet engine.

For the first night in weeks, Greg slept soundly, despite sprawling out on the uncomfortable couch. He didn’t remember falling asleep, nor that Mr. Doofus had curled up next to him.

The next morning, Greg sat up, certain that he would be stiff and sore from sleeping on the couch. Instead, he felt like his old self.

Mr. Doofus rubbed his head along Greg’s leg until he jumped down and walked over to the door to paw at it.

“Gotta go to the bathroom?”

Greg opened the door as the cat meandered out. It didn’t even occur to Greg that his new friend might not return. He left the door open.

By the time Greg had finished his coffee, brushed his teeth, and decided he needed to go to the store to get Mr. Doofus some supplies, Mr. Doofus popped back inside, meowing loudly to announce his presence.

The cat ran across to jump up on the couch as Greg’s fingers rubbed along his fur.

“Keep an eye on things for me. I’ll be back in thirty, okay?”

Mr. Doofus jumped down and walked over to the window. He jumped up and sat on the sill, licking his paw before running it smoothly across the top of his head.

Greg made it back home in forty-five minutes. He set up the litter box and put out the special decorated bowls for his new friend. Opening the bag of special cat food, he poured it into the bowl.

“I picked this out because the cat on the bag looks like you,” Greg told Mr. Doofus, who was already eating from the new bowl.

Greg turned on the TV and pulled out his phone. Mr. Doofus jumped up onto his lap and spread across him as Greg petted him.

“I’ll be back Monday,” Greg said, after his manager answered.

“That’s great news! So you’re doing okay? We were worried.” Greg’s manager sounded relieved.

“Yes, everything’s okay now.”

Mr. Doofus peered up at Greg as he finished the call.

“What? I’m fine. I’m just not going to be around as long as I thought. None of us is.”

Mr. Doofus seemed unconvinced, but settled back down when Greg ran his hand all the way down his back to the end of his tail.

When Greg got up to make another coffee and then went outside, the cat followed him and sat next to his left leg, rubbing and purring.

Over the next eleven months, Greg fell into a routine, including this new friend in everything he did. He wasted a lot of money buying the cat toys until one day he accidentally dropped an empty toilet paper roll on the bathroom floor. Mr. Doofus growled and attacked it. He spent the next ten minutes fighting it to the death. Soon after, Greg came home from work with multiple empty rolls that people had saved for him. He didn’t mind cleaning up the shredded cardboard because it was the only thing that reminded Mr. Doofus that he had once been wild.

…

The day finally came when he knew he had to put aside the veneer of privacy and talk to his neighbor Jane. She lived across the street and two houses down. They had greeted each other more than once, but never had a real conversation. Greg knew that she was a single mom and had struggled financially for a long time. Just looking at her car, it was obvious that crossed fingers probably kept it intact.

Jane took a bit to answer the door. She left the storm door closed as she smiled. Greg didn’t blame her for being cautious.

“Jane, I’m sorry to bother you, but if you have a few minutes, I would like to talk to you.”

Jane pushed the store door open and almost stepped out. She looked at Greg strangely and then pushed it out and held it open.

“Come on in. I’m making supper, if you don’t mind me doing that while we talk.”

As Greg stepped inside, the aroma of whatever she was making assaulted him. Hunger had mostly become a thing of the past, but the smell made his stomach growl.

Jane walked into the kitchen as Greg followed her. He stopped by the kitchen table as Jane stirred marinara on the stove top.

When Greg hesitated, Jane smiled. “Don’t be nervous. Unless you’re asking me for money.”

“I don’t know how to tell you all this. I apologize in advance for hitting you with it.”

Jane’s face changed as she listened. The smile became flat.

“No, it’s not anything bad or about you,” Greg said. “You know I don’t have any family left, right?”

Jane nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Sixty years taught me it’s the way life is. And the last year definitely reminded me. Anyway, I’m not going to be around much longer.”

Jane grimaced. Greg could see her recoil instinctively.

“I’ve lived longer than the doctor said I would. But now it’s time to face facts. I don’t know you at all, really, but if you agree, I’d like to make you an offer.”

“Oh?” It was easy to see that Jane was confused and probably a little worried because she had no context.

“Because I have no family, I want to give you my house, my car, and everything else left over.”

Jane’s face went through a series of contortions as she tried to catch up to what Greg had said.

“Give me your house? But you don’t know me!”

“I know. But I know you’re renting this house. And I know it’s a struggle as a mom with a 10-year-old boy.”

“So you want to just give me your house? What’s the catch? I’m sorry for being cynical. There has to be one.”

Greg shook his head. “There is. I want you to let my cat, Mr. Doofus, live in the house with you once I’m gone. That’s it. I think I’m only still alive because he adopted me a while back, at the exact moment I needed him.”

Jane’s eyes widened as she studied Greg’s face. In the thirty-eight years she had lived, she had learned to trust her instincts. Her gut told her Greg was telling the truth.

Her eyes welled up with tears as she continued to stare at Greg.

“I will need some more details from you, but I’m going to take care of everything so that I can make sure you don’t have to do anything or pay any legal bills.”

Jane turned awkwardly, turned off the stove burner, and moved the pan. She moved to the table, pulled the chair away from it, and sat down. As Greg watched, she put her face between her hands and sobbed.

Because he didn’t know her well, he waited silently. It took Jane a bit before she raised her head and wiped her eyes with her hands.

“Are you sure? There’s no one else?”

Greg shook his head. “Don’t be sad for me. Think of it as karma from the universe. I didn’t do anything to deserve the tumor that grew inside of me for a year before I knew it was there. But you deserve a chance, and I can give it to you. A place for your son to finish growing up and a place that’s yours. I’m going to get a new car and put the title in both of our names. It will be yours too, along with any money I have left over.”

“I’m so sorry, Greg. Jesus, I don’t know what to say. Last week I almost couldn’t make rent, and now you’re telling me you’re just giving me your house.”

Greg smiled. He instinctively knew that she was coming around to the idea.

“And yes, I will adopt Mr. Doofus and keep him for as long as he lives.” Jane wiped her eyes again. “I would have a pet, but I’d have to pay another deposit.”

Greg pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and flattened it. He put it on the table near Jane.

“Fill in these details tonight, if you don’t mind. You can put it on my door if you’d like. I have the day off tomorrow, and I’m going to meet my lawyer.”

Jane pushed back from the table, stood up, and took three steps before throwing her hands around Greg and hugging him.

“I am so sorry, Greg. Please don’t fault me for maybe looking happy. I’m sad for you.”

Greg tentatively put his arms around Jane and squeezed her.

When she stepped back, he smiled.

“I promise you I’m okay. I’ll let you finish dinner. I know your son’s coming home soon. Enjoy your evening, okay?”

Jane nodded, but didn’t reply. Greg knew that she was about to burst into tears. Had he told her she would probably end up with $200,000, she might have completely lost control.

…

When Greg went inside his house, Mr. Doofus meowed loudly until he sat on the floor and playfully wrestled with him. He ignored the pain running across his sides.

“You’re going to get a new friend to take care of you,” Gred said. Mr. Doofus stopped playfully biting at Greg’s fingers as he looked up. “Thank you for finding me, you little doofus.”

Mr. Doofus grabbed Greg’s right hand with his paws and resumed nipping at him with his teeth. Greg laughed and forgot about everything for a while.

…

A few weeks later, Maple Street became lined with colorful red, yellow, and orange leaves. The blue house with the blue door filled the air with competing colors. Inside, Jane sat on the couch. Her son Jefferson playfully tossed a cardboard roll to Mr. Doofus as he sat on the windowsill. Catching it in his paws, he attacked it. Little pieces of cardboard floated to the floor below. Jane shook her head, knowing that she would dutifully sweep it up later, once Mr. Doofus had vanquished the cardboard invader.

She thought of Greg almost every time she looked at Mr. Doofus. He wasn’t a cat at all. He was a timely angel, furry and loving. Had it not been for him, Greg wouldn’t have had enough time to come to terms with his death or his ability to help someone like her.

“Mom, is this really our house forever?” Her son Jefferson had asked her the same question a hundred times.

“No, it’s our home,” Jane said, smiling. “With our very own guardian angel.”

Mr. Doofus turned in a circle as he sat on the windowsill. He stared out the window as the leaves drifted to the ground.

…

Art, Behavior, Humor, Personal, Poetry And Prose

Pretend

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“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” 

Vonnegut’s warning about adapting and conforming to roles and behaviors is as true today as it was 65 years ago. 

It runs in the back of my mind all the time as I watch people sacrifice agency and personality. 

If you dehumanize people, convinced you’re doing it for profit, eventually you are not separate from the organization that financially motivates you to do it.

If you spout ideology, whether for entertainment purposes or views, at some point you become your words.

The positive aspect of this is that of course you can become kinder by using habit to constantly reinforce the behavior you want from yourself. 

The main focus that runs through my mind is that people are maintaining appearances and adopting personalities that serve them to make a living. Paradoxically, however, they often find themselves becoming what initially was a facade.

One of my favorite wood panels that I’ve made. I made it as a reminder of youth. And to never be the one on the sideline watching other people find a way to get the crayons and stick them out of their nostrils. I’ve not done well with this lately. 

Behavior, NSFW, Opinion, Personal, Psychology, Relationships, Romance, Social Rules, Writing

Erotica

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This isn’t the kind of post I started out to write. I don’t mind expressing myself on the fly, nor do I worry about being vague when I shouldn’t be, or about not getting it quite right. There are so many reasons NOT to write off-the-cuff. But I usually don’t let that stop me. If you want to get into hot water or draw unwelcome scrutiny, just try openly talking about sexuality.

When we’re young, we don’t fully understand it. It takes experience, tempered with real-world knowledge of the rituals and social norms of sexual expression and interaction. By the time we’re older, our bodies begin to revolt, and our expectations can get skewed by people, circumstances, or frustration. It’s not supposed to be that way.

Most of us are sexual beings. It’s one of those facts that’s obvious. Yet, we spend an inordinate amount of time keeping it hidden in plain sight. Most of the time, anyway. We wonder about our attractiveness, even when we’re in a committed, monogamous relationship. Hair, makeup, clothes, body, just about everything gets intertwined in our sexual identity.

For much of our lives, seeking pleasure is a constant companion. When it’s good, it’s one of the best possible things we can experience. It’s free. It’s liberating. It creates a connection. At least it is supposed to. When love is present, it can be freely expressed without so much shame, guilt, or embarrassment. 

Each of us has our own limits, boundaries, expectations, and fantasies. They aren’t something we talk about in our daily lives. If you’re lucky enough to have someone who loves you and is selfless enough to keep you satisfied, you are fortunate. If you don’t have unresolved issues, anger, or distance to keep you apart, you’re lucky.

Sex gets twisted into so many things it doesn’t need to be. 

Because this is my blog, I can say anything I want. It doesn’t shield me from potential recoil, shock, or embarrassment if I share too much or share things people don’t want to know. It’s not as if I’m explicit. 

I like writing romance stories. Especially shorter ones. I graduated with a woman who makes her living entirely from writing romance. The only difference between romance stories and erotica is that the latter breaks the barrier of explicitness. Romance novels use implication, innuendo, and roundabout means to signal all the things that erotica can express without limitation. 

Is erotica literature? Not always. But it can be if done with elegance and care. Exactly like sex can be connection and intimacy, even though it is rendered in flesh and bone and a messy adventure. People will smirk at erotica, as if some people don’t watch “Dancing With the Stars” for inspiration, or watch steamy movies without realizing it is running along the same rail as erotica.

Imagination powers a lot of sexual expression. Just a fantasy does. 

Because people don’t think about it comfortably, they can’t distinguish the subtle differences between fantasy and real-life expressions. They conflate a person’s fantasy life with their actual motivations.

As the long, dry spells of no sexual expression occur, I turn to erotica. I never thought I would be in a position to experience a life with such absences. However, as everyone knows, many relationships are more akin to roommate scenarios than to committed, loving, and intimate connections. I prefer erotica, whereas most people, it seems, turn to porn. Instead of reading what others have written, I prefer to compose it myself. To imagine people and scenarios. But all of them have the common theme of sexuality expressed as mutual satisfaction and selfless fulfillment. Don’t get me wrong. Sexual expression is amazing. But will anyone argue with the fact that it’s immeasurably better when you have someone who loves you and trusts you?

Perhaps erotica is old school in an era of so much technology. However, it’s about imagination, and very few things can trump someone who has a fantastic imagination.

It is fascinating to watch people as they live their lives and wrestle with the hidden fact of their sexuality. We don’t know what people think in the privacy of their minds. What turns them on. But we do know that sexuality ruins a lot of people and a lot of relationships. Especially when it’s absent or used in a way it’s not supposed to be. A big part of that is because sexual discussion is very taboo except in very limited circumstances. 

What makes it worse is that the very people most likely to criticize or shame others are also the ones who are most likely to be secretly consuming all manner of explicit content. 

It shouldn’t be the outliers trying to guilt us or shame us.   We’re all created and hardwired with the drive for sexual expression. Most of us, anyway. And there is an entire spectrum of differing sexual expression and need.

A good, satisfying life is about striking a balance in all things. Sex is just one of those things. On the other hand, I often think of one of my favorite lyrics, “I didn’t buy the house for the kitchen, but try living there without one.” If one thing is out of balance, it creeps into everything. Modern society constantly reminds me that people will lose all reason in their search for what they think is missing. It is also the cousin of alcoholism and addiction.

I don’t like the idea of objectifying people. That’s one main difference between erotica and other means. It’s entirely imagination. And the kind I like requires people who are excited to experience another person, trying to find the right mix of pleasure and living life with someone who wants the same. 

X
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Poetry And Prose, Romance, Story, Writing

May (A Story)

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For a year, I searched for May in the crowds and along the city’s walkways. My eyes sought her out in the early morning or late evening during all manner of weather. I only met May once, on a warm afternoon in early June. The times I’d fantasized about meeting her again were countless. Something about her convinced me she had dropped her guard with me in a moment of spontaneous connection.

After a few months, I occasionally left a scribbled message along the walkway: “May, remember me? Clark.” More and more frequently, I’d return to the messages, hoping I’d see a sign.

Months passed without an answer. I questioned whether she might have told a white lie by omission; an implied untruth allowed me to believe she lived nearby. Maybe she didn’t visit this part of town. Every detail of our encounter plagued me.
…

A year ago, I walked fast along a portion of the city’s most unfamiliar walkways. A long, aimless walk was the only thing that might distract me. After several miles, I stopped to sit on a wooden bench near the edge of one of the city parks. Looking for a song on my phone, I sat without paying attention to who might pass by.

“Hey, I hope you don’t mind if I sit here.” I looked up to see an older woman wearing headphones. She pulled them from her ears and wrapped them around her neck. She wore denim shorts and a loose-fitting white T-shirt. I’m not sure how old she was. I’d guess she was five years older than me. Her long black hair fell loosely around her shoulders.

“Sure. Just taking a break,” I told her.

The woman sat on the bench. Taking her phone out, she fiddled with something onscreen and leaned back against the bench.

“Me too. I walked too far today. The apartment was too quiet. I could almost hear the shadows, if you know what I mean.”

I looked briefly to my right as the woman spoke. The way she phrased her motivation sparked interest.

“I do. That’s a good way to put it.”

The woman smiled. “I just retired six months ago. Too early, according to some.”

“Congratulations,” I told her.

“Thank you. I thought I’d retire and be happy with my husband.”

The way her voice changed slightly as she ended her comment told me that her husband had other plans.

“Oh? I’m sorry. Did something happen?” When the words came out, I realized how intrusive they might be. I quickly added, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

The woman laughed. “If you can’t disclose your secrets to a stranger on a bench, who can you trust?”

I smiled, thankful that she diffused my awkwardness.

“We planned our retirement early. To enjoy life. It turns out he wanted to enjoy his with someone else.” The woman looked up at the trees on the other side of the walkway.

I don’t know why I blurted it out. “After years of being lonely with my girlfriend, I left her. Now, at least, I’m lonely for real.”

The woman turned and looked deeply into my eyes. “I’m May. I’m sorry about your girlfriend.”

“And I’m sorry about your husband, May.” I found myself not looking away from May’s green eyes. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth looked earned – probably from happier years of laughing and living.

May shrugged. “I’m stuck in a holding pattern, trying to figure out what’s supposed to be next.”

I nodded. “I agree with that sentiment.”

We fell silent momentarily as a young woman walking two large dogs passed by. We both waved at the woman simultaneously. She waved back and smiled at us, probably thinking we were together.

I realized I hadn’t introduced myself. “I’m Clark, by the way.”

“That name suits you,” May answered. “Rumpelstiltskin might have worked, though.”

I laughed. “Too much writing.”

May smiled back at me. She looked away quickly and then immediately back to me.

To my surprise, May reached for my right hand with her left. Her fingers were warm as they wrapped around mine. I didn’t pull away from her touch. May stared at me as if she wanted to say something.

I’ve often thought about what I did next, but no good explanation comes to mind. I moved my fingers from hers and held my right arm up above the back of the bench. May understood my intentions.

She stood slightly and moved to sit beside me, her leg against mine. May leaned her head against my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her and squeezed her right arm. Had I known May, it would have been the most natural thing in the world to do.

May sighed. I felt her body relax into mine.

“Clark, you feel so good. I haven’t been held in such a very long time.”

“Likewise, May. Can we sit here for a month and just hold each other? Pretend we’ve been together forever?”

May nodded against my shoulder. Her left arm pushed behind me and around me. She squeezed my ribs with her fingers. I rubbed her arm like I’d done it a thousand times.

We sat for several minutes, unmoving, each of us lost in our thoughts.

May began to speak in a low voice. “I had been married for thirty-three years. The first twenty-five were amazing. And then they weren’t. My daughter, April, moved to Australia, and my husband seemingly had to work all the time. I knew something had fundamentally changed, even though I couldn’t quite identify what. We planned our retirement, to see the world, and to enjoy life. And then he was gone.”

I squeezed May against me. Her right hand moved to rest on my chest and rubbed. Whether it was subconscious or deliberate, I wasn’t sure. But I did recognize that it was something that she probably did when she felt safe.

I spoke without worrying about how I might sound. “I spent years trying to feel valued, much less touched with passion. One morning, something snapped. I realized that being alone might be better than being scared of being alone. There is no doubt about it: I need to be with someone to be happy. But that someone has to reciprocate.”

“Of course,” May whispered.

We once again fell silent. The birds and nature sounds filled the gaps as we softly touched one another.

Five minutes later, we heard a dog barking as it ran down the walkway. As it approached, May raised her head to look. She sat up quickly.

“I think that’s Bert, my neighbor’s dog. Susan will be out of her mind.”

Feeling disoriented, I sat up as May stood. May turned to me as the dog scampered past, trailing its leash.

“I have to catch up to it. Bert is too old to go looking for her dog. I’ll see you later, Clark, if you’d like?”

I nodded. “Yes, I’d like nothing better.”

Before I could tell her where I lived, May smiled at me, turned, and walked away fast. I watched her grow smaller in the distance, heading away from me.

It wasn’t until she was out of sight that I realized I should have accompanied her if only to be near her. I still felt May’s body leaning against mine.

That was the last time I saw her.

…

As the months passed, I felt messages on the walkways. I looked not only for May, but also for a Labrador with a long green leash. Nothing.

The one benefit to the chance encounter was that I walked miles each day, learning the city’s secret and hidden paths. No one knew that I searched for May. Thinking of holding her again occupied my thoughts. As unrealistic as my fantasy might be, I hoped she might want to be held again.

Last Saturday morning, as I approached the bench I shared with May, I bent to leave another message—the same one I always left.

A voice interrupted me. “Are you leaving notes for May Smith?”

I looked up, still bent down. A woman wearing a tracksuit and absurdly white shoes stared down at me.

I stood up. “I’m not sure. I don’t know her last name.”

The woman gave me a look of suspicion. “It seems odd that you don’t know her last name if you leave odd notes on the concrete.”

I shrugged. “You’re not wrong. I can’t explain it. We met about a year ago.”

“Does she have long black hair? Green eyes? She’s sixty-six years old.” The woman seemed hesitant. Her curiosity got the best of her.

I nodded, smiling. “You know her? Sixty-six? She doesn’t look like it. I’ve been looking for her for a year.”

“Yes, that’s her. I’m not telling you anything unless you can give me some context. There are too many weirdos in the world.” The woman gave me a look as if to indicate that I probably was one of those weirdos.

I felt like another person took control of my voice as I answered. “Her husband left her. All I can tell you is that we sat on the bench over there and held each other for what felt like a month. I think we had a connection. Her neighbor’s dog Bert ran by. She left too quickly before I could find out who she was.”

The woman listened intently. Finally, she shrugged. “What the hell? Why not? That’s her. You seem genuine. I’ll give you her address. But I will need to see your license if you’re one of those quietly crazy people.”

I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and opened it for the woman to inspect. She carefully looked it over.

“I hope you find her and what you’re looking for, Clark.”

I typed May’s address into my phone as the woman recited it.

“Thank you so much!” I felt the excitement in my chest.

“Good luck to you both. I wish my husband were so interested,” she said as she walked away.

I stood for at least a minute, arguing with myself about walking to find May immediately.

…

Thirty-five minutes later, I turned at the corner of Williams and Jones. The street was lined with nice two-story townhouses. May’s unit had to be somewhere along the street. I walked faster as my eyes scanned the numbers on the front of each building.

Up ahead, I saw a woman opening her mailbox. As she reached inside, I felt a twinge of anticipation. I knew it had to be May. Her long black hair covered her neck. She turned to walk back toward her townhouse.

Even though I was at least thirty feet away, I almost shouted. “May, is that you?”

The woman froze. When she turned, I saw the recognition in her eyes.

I didn’t know anything about her. She might be with someone now or not remember the encounter as magical or laden with potential. The “what ifs” almost stopped me, but the hope of the “what ifs” drowned out my worries.

“Clark!” May excitedly answered.

We locked eyes as I stopped in front of her. As I struggled to speak, May took away the need. She opened her arms despite the mail clutched in her right hand.

I moved in to hug her. May’s arms wrapped around me and squeezed.

“I’ve been looking for you for a year, May,” I told her, melting against her.

“I’ve wondered about you every day, Clark.”

“You have?” I almost lost my voice as the emotion of a year of searching welled up.

We wrapped our arms around each other more tightly. May’s face pressed against my shoulder. Once again, I felt like we had known each other forever.

Finally, May stepped back. Her eyes held mine.

“What are we doing?” May smiled.

“Getting to know each other. We can’t hug forever, you know.”

“I don’t see why not. I’d love to get to know you, Clark.”

I gulped. “I’d love that.”

May continued to smile. “Then come inside, and let’s start the dance of getting to know everything about one another.”

I followed May into her townhouse and into another life.

Love, X
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Music, New Word, Personal, Poetry And Prose, Writing

If Or Why (Original Songs)

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I don’t expect people to take the time to listen or absorb the message. Whether other people think so or not, some of the lyrics are insightful. The female voice version seemed to have an unpleasant tone, even though it resonated with me, and I worked diligently until I achieved that sound.

I don’t create things with the exclusive motive of it being liked. If I had that fear, I would do what most people would and fail to summon magical words from the air.

I have three versions of this song.

Here are the lyrics:

the January sun shone on your hair
your shirt clung to you like a glove
I held my breath for a fleeting moment
as I watched you walk toward me

I knew your mind was elsewhere
I waited for our eyes to meet
A smile, a glance, flickering enthusiasm
The reciprocal charm of being waited for

I couldn’t do what came to mind
I couldn’t say the things in my heart
I swallowed down the hungry tingle
and instead urgently looked away

When you feel like you’ve been hungry
The difficulty lies in thinking straight
You don’t buy a house just for the kitchen
But try living there without one

The gradual wither of my affection
Leaves me a little shredded and uncertain
I can’t find the words to explain the color blue
When you don’t see the things that I see as true

Beauty truly lies in the eye of the beholder
its value diminishes when someone grows colder
Confidence and esteem have their place
Yet it’s a tango, a duet, and a mutual dance

One person’s truth is another’s lie
It’s easy to forget that it takes two
Both being nurtured, seen, and felt

One person’s truth is another’s lie
And I can’t find the words to tell you why
I crave a life filled with overflowing
Freely shared and effortlessly showing

Dancing alone just isn’t the same
It moves your feet yet traps the pain

if art is food for the soul
of what use are eyes if not to see
of what use are arms
if not to hold and behold

One person’s truth is another’s lie

No one should be left wondering if or why

….

The original version…

The second version, more of a rock feel…

An alternate rock version…

Love, X
.

Story, Writing

Chance (A Story)

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Chance
(A Story)

She sat in the shade on a hot summer afternoon. Another woman was with her. The other woman chatted with her while they both watched the two children attempt to swing high.

As I walked by on the dirt path barefoot, my pants rolled up to my knees, I noted that she glanced at me more than once. Initially, I thought maybe the multiple glances were due to the rarity of spotting a middle-aged man walking barefoot—and in the heat.

The woman’s ponytail swished across her shoulders as she turned her head. She was about forty-five years old. The next time her head swiveled toward me, I met her gaze. She smiled at me and nodded. I smiled and nodded back. She was a pretty woman, and her smile amplified her face.

I walked past her and her companion. As I neared the edge of the dirt path, I heard a voice call out, “Hey, man with his pants rolled up!”

Since I doubted there were multiple iterations of men with their pants rolled up, I turned and stopped.

The woman with the ponytail trotted toward me and stopped as she put her hands on her hips. She stood about ten feet from me.

“I’m Jane, ” she said.

“I’m Jay,” I replied. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is going to sound odd, but you look interesting. Do you want to come sit under the shade with me? I have a lot of questions.”

I smiled immediately. “Fair warning. I love being cryptic and clever.”

“Not half as much as me!” Jane’s smile became even broader. She turned as if she assumed I would follow.

I walked back toward the canopy of trees over the swings. Jane’s friend saw me approach.

“Jane, you’ve got to stop talking to strangers.”

“What? He’s going to rob us and then run away barefoot? Everyone is a stranger until they’re not. Besides, your psychic sister told me I would run into the love of my life under unusual circumstances.”

I laughed.

“See, Becky, he’s laughing. How dangerous can he be?” Jane raised her right eyebrow and stuck her tongue out at Becky.

“You are as bad as my two kids, Jane.” Becky waved at me and introduced herself.

Jane motioned for me to sit near her on the swing perimeter.

“What are you doing walking around barefooted, Jay?” I noticed that Jane looked at me from the corner of her eye as she spoke.

“It feels good,” I told her. “And I get a dollar for each sharp object I find with my toes.”

Jane laughed. Her friend Becky shook her head as if I had said something ridiculous.

“Okay. Why are your pants rolled up?”

I smiled. “To keep my pants dry. I walked at least a mile upstream and back.”

“That means you’re single.” Jane’s expression didn’t change as she made the announcement.

“I am. But what makes you come to that conclusion!”

Jane paused. “Because people who are taken don’t go on barefoot adventures in the creek.”

“That makes sense. But I could have been throwing off the bloodhounds.” I knew she would have a quick reply.

“I’m not sure that sauntering barefoot in plain sight is an effective escape strategy.”

“Perhaps escape isn’t my objective.” I couldn’t stop grinning at our rapid-fire exchanges.

“You must be one of those rare stop-and-pet-the-bloodhound guys I’ve heard nothing about.”

“Yes. I used to be a stop-and-smell-the-roses guy, but the neighbor got me arrested.”

I heard Becky laugh.

“Y’all are made for each other. Not a lick of sense between the two of you.”

“Is she your matchmaker Jane?”

“No, that’s her sister Reba. She’s the psychic I mentioned. She told me I would meet my ideal man a month ago. That’s why I booked the day trip to the county jail, hoping to find just the right one.” Jane turned to look at me directly. Even though I laughed, I took a moment to hold her gaze.

“I am the man of your dreams. Freddy Krueger minus the sweatshirt.”

Before I barely had the words out of my mouth, she replied, “I am looking for a total mismatch. Someone too dumb to get out of the rain.”

I hesitated because her comment struck a nerve. In the back of my mind, I always thought I belonged with someone who would go out in the rain with me without worrying about their hair, makeup, or how they might look.

Because of the unusual circumstance of being invited into a conversation in a public park, I couldn’t help myself. “Would you like to go out with me sometime?”

Jane grinned. “Just like that? How do you know I’m interested?”

“I don’t. But you asked me over to ask questions. I’m assuming you’re not taken either. I doubt your boyfriend or husband would encourage you to talk to random strangers like this.”

“You’re not random. I was waiting for someone barefooted with their pants rolled up. Duh!” She reached over and swatted my arm. “You’re just the first guy who has qualified.”

Becky spoke. “She’s single. Believe me. You’re signing up for nutso if she goes out with you.”

Jane startled me by speaking unexpectedly loudly. “That’s rich, coming from you. Your husband Pete has everything but clown shoes.”

“Ha ha,” Becky replied.

“Okay, Jay. Technically, we’re already out, so we’ll call this our first date. When would you like the second to be?”

“As soon as provident.”

“Provident, huh? Who uses that word? I’m definitely in if you will wow me with your vocabulary.”

I stood up and walked to the edge of the trees bordering the park. I picked up a flat stone and a smaller one. Jane watched me intently. Becky pretended that we were behaving normally.

I scratched my phone number into the bigger flat rock, walked back to Jane, and handed it to her.

“Positively prehistoric. Going old school on me. I love it.” Jane’s head tilted, and her eyes met mine.

I can’t explain it. I knew at that moment that she would call. And that she would violate the presumptive rules of dating and call me within a couple of hours.

I also knew I would have my phone near me to receive it.

…
I often think about that random encounter. So many things could have prevented the synchronicity and coincidence of that connection.

Jane and I often joke about the afternoon we met. Seven hundred and three days have passed (…but who is counting…) since that afternoon. Becky still gives us hell about it. We both laugh, thinking about the ease and unlikelihood of our first conversation. Each time we’re standing in the creek, we look up at the trees and the sun shining through the branches.

X
.

Romance, Story, Writing

The Flowers (A Story)

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Shane knocked on the front door a bit hesitantly. It was his first real date in eight years. When Susan told him to drop by around 5 p.m. to pick her up, he realized she must trust him. It was a rarity for a woman to invite someone so new in their life to her house. Not that he kept up with dating trends.

Susan opened the door, smiling.

“Shane! I’m so glad to see you. Hug me.” Susan didn’t wait for him to respond. She stepped forward and gave him a strong hug. It was difficult for her to believe she’d only known him a week, doubly so because one of her friends from work had highly recommended that she get to know him. None of the previous attempts at being matched were successful. There was always a catch to their enthusiasm. On one memorable date, her friend Claire conveniently forgot to mention that the would-be boyfriend spent a lot of his free time at gentlemen’s clubs.

Shane laughed. “You must be glad to see me.”

Susan nodded enthusiastically. “You promised me flowers, Shane.” She winked at him.

“Indeed I did. And I will surprise you with them soon enough.” He gave Susan a cryptic wink in return.

“Full of surprises, aren’t you? That’s fine by me. Surprise away. Do you want something to drink before we go? A sandwich? A pool float? Maybe an entire apple pie?” Susan fired off the humorous options rapidly.

“Haha. No, I’m good. If you’re ready, we can go. Unless you want an entire lemon cake as a snack before we head out?” For a second, Susan couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“No, I wait until Sunday night before bed for that.”

Shane nodded and smiled.

“Let me get my small purse and we’ll go. I put on comfortable shoes, just as you requested.” Susan pointed at her shoes, then twirled in full circle as her sundress swirled around her.

As Shane backed out of Susan’s driveway, she immediately started asking him questions. He looked over at her every few seconds, both to acknowledge her and to steal a glance. At forty-seven, she was naturally pretty. Her hair was restrained by a ponytail. It was her quick smile and wit that captivated him.

After ten minutes of banter, Susan smiled at him. “You said you had a song for me to listen to, one that you wanted to share with me.”

“Yes.” He pressed the input button on his console stereo. “It’s not what you expect.”

Susan clapped her hands quickly together. “Goody! Another surprise. Who doesn’t like surprise music?”

As the music started, Susan realized it was the original version of a song she hadn’t heard in years, not since her grandmother died. One of her favorite memories was of her Nonna playing records in the kitchen as she cooked.

Both Shane and Susan were quiet as the song played. When it finished, Susan said, “How could you have known that this song is so special to me, Shane?”

Shane cleared his throat. The song had taken him back to nostalgic memories, too. “I didn’t. My grandparents used to play this record over and over and talk about how they almost weren’t together. I can’t hear the song without thinking about how it is a song about our temporary place in the world and to appreciate one another.”

Suan reached over and touched Shane’s right arm as he drove. She recounted her childhood and her grandmother Nonna in the kitchen.

Just as Shane was about to speak, Susan said, “Can we listen to it again?”

“Of course,” Shane answered and hit a button on his console.

They both listened in silence as “Il Mondo” repeated. When it ended, Shane took a glance over at Susan. Her eyes locked with his. He nodded. Susan smiled in return.

A few minutes later, Susan realized they were heading toward the lake. “Swimming? I didn’t bring a swimsuit, Shane.”

Shane laughed. “No swimming. Unless we have an accident. Or the urge overtakes you.”

Susan laughed again, something she found herself doing often. She had the idea that if she did strip down to her underwear Shane would look at her with appreciation. He radiated… gratitude about everything. Normally, she felt awkward because she tended to talk a lot. Or laugh. Not with Shane.

Shane turned onto a side road near the lake and drove about a mile into the trees that stood thickly around the road. “I know someone who lets me come visit. You’ll see.”

He took a left onto an almost invisible dirt road, not much more than a path. Within thirty seconds, they neared the water’s edge. The water lapped up against the shore.

Shane turned off the truck and stepped out. Susan didn’t realize that she was waiting for him to come around the side of the truck to open her door. When he pulled it open, she held out her right hand for him to hold as she stepped down.

She followed him around as he reached over and pulled a small cooler from a crate fastened against the cab of the truck.

“Interesting,” Susan said. She stood and smelled the strong, earthy smell of the trees and the water.

“This is about the best place on the entire lake, Susan.” He smiled at her. She felt goosebumps on the back of her arms.

“After you,” Shane said, and pointed toward the right, along the shore.

Susan walked on the small rocks and pieces of driftwood, watching the water capture the shimmering reflection of the late August sun.

“It’s fairly close,” Shane said as if he needed to reassure her.

Susan turned to look at him. “I’m good for any amount of walking, Shane. I can keep up.”

Shane watched Susan walk, her feet confident on the shore. Her ponytail bobbed as she walked. He followed her around the curved shoreline.

Susan pointed. “That’s such a beautiful island! Look at that huge dead tree.”

Shane laughed. “That’s where we’re headed.”

Within twenty yards, Susan saw a small Jon boat tethered to the shore. Paddles leaned on the inside.

“I was hoping we could swim to the island. I’m kind of disappointed.” Susan laughed, teasing.

“We could, but the alligators get cranky this time of the year, Susan.” He smiled back at her.

She shook her head. “I ride alligators, so that’s okay with me.”

Shane unanchored the boat. He then leaned over the edge of the flat-bottomed boat and placed the cooler inside. He held out his hand and helped Susan step into the boat. He walked into the water and stepped quickly over and toward the rear of the small boat. Grabbing the oars, he pushed them into the water and pushed hard, moving the boat slightly away from the shore.

Shane slowly rowed the boat back a bit and then managed to get it turned toward the island about a hundred yards away. Susan didn’t ask him why he didn’t use a trolling motor. She knew he’d tell her he didn’t want to disturb the quiet of the lake. Shane seemed to be one of those rare people who spoke plainly and rarely made her wonder about what he wasn’t saying.

As he rowed, Susan smiled and then laughed. “I didn’t mean to laugh. You’re not very good with those oars, Shane.”

He winked at her. “I know. You’d think I’d be an expert by now as much as I’ve visited. But I don’t love rowing. I love getting across. I could spend time getting great at it but I don’t see the point.”

Susan looked at Shane as he rowed. She realized that he just inadvertently revealed something about himself with his admission about rowing. She liked the realization. Most people, and men in particular, didn’t openly agree they weren’t good at something.

Susan turned sideways in the front of the boat, watching the island slowly approach. It was filled with thick trees and bushes. The dead tree sat on their side of the island. Susan saw movement and realized a large bird sat immobilize on top of the broken, dead tree.

“It’s an eagle,” she shouted.

“Yes, it’s that time of the year when you can almost touch them as they fly down across the lake.” Just as he spoke, the eagle spread its wing and dived off the tree. It flew across the surface of the lake about twenty feet away from them. Susan watched it effortlessly cross the lake and over the trees lining the shore.

Shane continued to row and turned to row parallel to its shores. Susan now faced the island, keenly watching the trees and brush. She was silent. Shane watched her face as he rowed.

“How long has it been since you’ve been out on the water like this, Susan?”

She turned her head to look at him. “Years. And not since I was very young have I been in the water so… closely. This is beautiful, Shane.”

“Wait. Just wait.” Shane laughed softly. Shane continued to row and the boat made a long arc around to the other side of the island. The opposite shore was only about thirty yards away on this side.

“You can often see deer swimming across here, Susan. This side isn’t inhabited. My friend owns the entire length. It’s empty. At least of people.”

Susan watched the far side of the shore instead of the island, which was Shane’s intention.

He rowed a little faster and when the boat reached the intended destination, he turned slowly toward the hidden far side of the island.

“Wow!” Susan almost shouted. Her voice carried loudly across the lake.

Shane smiled as Susan asked, “What kind of plant is that?!”

“Buttonbushes. Late in the season for them. But beautiful and practical.”

Shane looked at the dozens of buttonbushes about twenty feet from the island shore. Most were white blossomed. Three or four were pink. Off to the right, a picnic table and upright steel grill stood. A pile of driftwood at least four feet high was closer to the shore.

“Did you do all of this, Shane? It’s like we’re in another little world on this side of the island.”

Shane nodded. “Boats can’t approach from the inlet side because of the rock outcroppings underneath. The water under is only about two feet deep, believe it or not. But yes, I did encourage the foliage and made the space.”

“It’s magical.” Susan’s eyes devoured the hidden space that Shane had willed into existence. “I bet you bring all the special girls out here to woo them, don’t you?” She smiled from ear to ear.

“Why yes, I do,” Shane said. “So far, it’s been a grand total of you.” As he spoke, he moved the boat to the shoreline and it skidded to a stop. Susan steadied herself as it slid across the shore.

Shane stepped forward in the boat and then climbed out. He held out his hand to help Susan step off. When she put both feet on the ground, she surprised herself and Shane by tilting her head, stepping closer, and kissing him on the lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I love it already. Are these the flowers you promised?”

Shane grinned. “Yes.”

“They are perfect. This place is perfect.” Susan twirled again.

Shane walked over to the picnic table and placed the small cooler on top of it. Opening it, he pulled out two small single-serve bottles of wine. He opened one for each of them and handed one to Susan. She tipped her bottle forward and Shane clinked his against hers.

Susan sat on the bench of the picnic table, facing outward. Shane sat next to her. They both looked at the buttonbush-covered treeline and then back toward the opposite shore. The sun was about thirty minutes from setting. Oddly, Susan didn’t feel the urge to talk. She sat next to Shane, watching the water and the sunlight. The quiet of the island was a surprise to her and felt almost like meditation.

Susan didn’t realize that she reached out and grasped Shane’s right hand with her left. Their fingers curled together. She looked over at Shane and locked eyes with him. A smile broke out on her face. She leaned toward him and put her head against his right shoulder. Shane heard her sigh.

Behind them, the food Shane prepared was forgotten. Both took pleasure in the quiet and the presence of one another. Though neither knew it, each of them was experiencing an almost unfamiliar sensation: hope. After finishing their wine and placing the bottles on the table, Shane put his arm around Susan.

Maybe later Shane would assemble a bonfire so that they could make smores together. He’d let her decide.

She leaned into him.

She leaned into the future.

Lord help them both.

Love, X
.

Story, Writing

An Afternoon In Archibald County(A Story)

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“Jones, are you still out by Highway 63?” Deputy Jones heard his radio go off as he urinated by his truck. He finished, reached up, and held the send button on his shoulder-mounted radio. “Copy. Yeah, taking care of business,” he replied. The deputy raised his left hand to wave at Joe Smith as he drove by. Joe shook his head and waved with an index finger.

Jessie, the Sheriff’s wife who also served as dispatcher, secretary, and sometimes backup deputy answered, “Didn’t need to know that. Shake it off and go see what’s going on at Dave’s house, would you?” Jessie was accustomed to hearing the two deputies use the radio like teenage boys.

“Copy, be there in three minutes.” Deputy Jones laughed, knowing that Jessie would immediately chastise him for speeding.

He didn’t wait long. “Jones, you drive a Ford. It can’t go faster than 50 without taking a break.”

Deputy Jones didn’t ask what the disturbance was at Dave’s house. Dave used to be a hell-raiser until he met his wife June. Last weekend, June had met Dave on their porch as he came home from work and gave him an ultimatum: quit coming home after drinking or she’d leave. Sheriff Thomas made it clear to both deputies that he couldn’t allow Dave to return to his old ways. Their holding cell held only two people at a time and the sheriff couldn’t afford to drive Dave to the next county every weekend.

Deputy Jones floored his Ford pickup and turned down the last gravel road to Dave and June’s place in less than six minutes. As the deputy neared Dave’s house near the end of the road, he saw Dave standing next to his Chevy truck. The deputy didn’t hold Dave’s poor choice of trunk against Dave.

Dave held a rifle and fired shot after shot toward his porch. The deputy wasn’t worried about anyone getting shot, as Dave wasn’t that sort of person. Bullets were getting expensive, though, and Dave needed to be saving money.

Dave turned his head toward the deputy momentarily as he fired found after round at his porch. The deputy noted that one of his two rocking chairs on the far end of the porch had sustained considerable damage.

“Target practicing, Dave?” Deputy Jones had to shout between rounds as he approached Dave.

Dave lowered his rifle. He leaned it against his leg and pulled out a pack of Camels, lit one, and drew in a long drag on the cigarette.

“June left about an hour before I got home, Jones.” Dave exhaled a long blow of cigarette smoke.

“Well, she did tell you to stop going out and drinking, didn’t she?” Jones smiled.

“Yeah. But I wanted one more beer with the gang.”

Jones answered, “Did you tell her that? Or did you just stay after work and drink a couple?”

“I shouldn’t have to tell her every damned thing I do, Jones. She knows I’m not up to no good.” Dave sounded like he doubted what he was saying.

“She’s pregnant, Dave. It’s her job to teach you common sense.”

Dave half-smiled. “I have plenty of common sense!”

Jones shook his head. “Nah, you don’t. Not only are you wasting ammunition, but you’re ruining a perfectly good rocking chair. And hanging out after work with those hooligans doesn’t get you anywhere. You need to be at home, taking care of your beautiful wife.”

“Are you calling my wife pretty, Jones?” He paused. “Well, she is pretty, that’s for damned sure. And I won’t need two rocking chairs if June ain’t coming back.”

“Dave, this is what the sheriff’s wife would call a wake-up call. She’s not leaving you unless you give her no choice.” Deputy Jones put his hand on Dave’s shoulder for a moment.

“I can have a beer after work, can’t I? I work hard.”

Jones nodded. “Of course. But here’s an idea. Why not come home and cook some food out here on the grill and have a couple of friends come to celebrate with you and June instead of you sitting up at the stupid bar?”

Dave looked like he’d accidentally chewed a grasshopper. “You are a genius, Jones. You think it’d be all right with June?”

Jones nodded again. “I’m sure of it. Why don’t you call her and ask her? You know she’s at her sister’s house.”

“I’ll drive over and ask her right now!” Dave flicked his cigarette into the yard.

“Word of advice, Dave. The sheriff wants you to stop getting into your truck after you drink, as a courtesy to your fellow Archibald County residents. Besides, you’re going to have a kid in a few months.”

Dave froze. “Dang it. I wasn’t ready to have a kid.”

“That’s how life is. Besides, what did you think would happen if you kept putting your moves on June?”

They both laughed.

The deputy took his pistol from the holster on his right hip and aimed it at the rocking chair without any damage. He fired six shots, one after the other. Each bullet shattered pieces and splinters off of the unharmed rocking chair.

“Damn it, Jones, you ruined my other rocking chair! Now I have to buy two!” Dave shouted in surprise.

The deputy put his gun back in the holster and laughed. “That’s the cost of having me come out and talk sense into you. I saved your marriage. Are you gonna complain about needing two rocking chairs?”

Dave grinned ear to ear and leaned his rifle against his truck. He held his hand out to Deputy Jones, who shook it with a laugh.

“Go inside and call June. Tell her I said hello. That way she’ll know that you talked to someone with sense.” The deputy grinned and gave Dave a one-finger salute.

“Thanks, Jones. Call me if that useless Ford of yours breaks down on the way home.” He returned the one-finger salute to the deputy as he walked back to his truck.

Deputy Jones hit the send button on his radio. “Jessie, what we have here is just a case of target practice. Two rocking chairs are down.”

Jessie’s voice answered. “10-4. Joe called to say you were urinating on the road again. You have to stop doing that in front of people.”

Jones immediately replied, “If I do it behind people, they tend to get nervouser.”

“Nervouser isn’t a word, Jones.”

Deputy Jones laughed. “Maybe, but you understood me.”

Jessie hit the send button too soon because Deputy Jones heard the beginning of a laugh on her end. “No one understands you. Over.”

As the deputy backed out to turn around and head back to town, he watched as Dave walked up on the porch and inside his house.

He shook his head and floored the gas on his truck. Dust followed him as he left. Another day in Archibald County.

X